"The Simmons kids. But they've run away before. They'll be back."
Jerry's hand went slowly down. The sheriff's voice echoed hollowly from the lowered receiver. "Well, won't they?"
It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. It didn't wake Jerry—he was sitting in bed, staring into the darkness. There was a pile of books beside him; he knocked them over getting up to answer the door.
Mike Carver stumbled in. He dropped into a chair, panting. Jerry went for a bottle and glass. Carver gulped the drink, then held the tumbler out for another.
"I run all the way down the ridge," he gasped, "till I catched a ride. I figgered you ought to know what happened. It got my brother Ed."
Jerry's lean face hardened.
"Yeah. It was prowlin' around. We went after it, an' shot it."
"But you said ..."
"I said it killed Ed." The old lips tightened. "We gave it one slug through the heart and one through the head. They didn't even slow it down."